For a Good Time Call a Winchester
by sister dark
Summary: Inspired by the little quip in Shadow about Sam being a Drama Geek. Sam knows this much he's rather take on Demons than run lines with Rachel Macaulay in the Winchester's tiny apartment.


Picture Sam, age 16.

He's tall – long muscle stretched over his lanky frame, big hands and big feet – all elbows and knees and awkward grace. His hair brushes the tops of his ears – it's the longest it's ever been and his dad hates it.

His boyish face hasn't quite made the transition to manhood yet, like the rest of him, he's caught between ages, and he stands out – not just because he's a foot taller than everyone else in his grade. His face is all masculine angles and lines – an odd mix with his too big eyes – expressive and angry and defiant – he's strangely beautiful this way, sixteen, and promising.

No one says it out loud, but all the girls want him – some of the boys too. And why wouldn't they? His big hand handles a pen like he's so sure of it – confident fingers that write furiously – he could probably do things with those hands – things other high-school boys probably didn't even _dream_ of.

The things they'd give to get Sam to gaze at them like he gazed at the books he always reads – intense and fierce and unwavering – all fixed jade eyes defying you and daring you.

They all wanted him, but they'd never tell. Not when he was sitting all alone reading books with titles like Demonology in Modern America. Not when Derek Turner decided it'd be funny to throw crumpled paper balls at his head whenever he answered a question in class, all elaborate explanations, pretending not to notice. Not when he disappeared for weeks at a time on hunting trips with his Father and Brother, or when he'd disappear altogether, because his dad had decided it was time to leave, again, time to move, again.

They all wanted him – every girl likes a mystery. But he'd never know.

Sam Winchester, age sixteen, knows this much – he hates football players nearly as much as he hates bow-hunting, detests the cafeteria more than an empty hotel room, prefers high-school French to ancient Latin, Math to iconography, and would rather take on any number of demons than run lines with Rachel Macaulay, alone, in the Winchester's tiny apartment.

In his tiny room.

On his equally tiny bed.

"Josh, please, please take me home – I don't know where all this is going – it's so soon – I think we need more time before -," she recites, the tips of her nails denting into the paper, they're painted a light pink, and she smells like vanilla and nutmeg and girl – and her hand is lingering on his arm, and he can barely form cohesive thoughts, let alone remember his line.

He tries anyway, and succeeds only in staring at her lips, pink and half open, a few strands of her dark hair stuck to her gloss, which she hastily brushes away.

He gulps, and glances away. "Umm…line?"

Rachel giggles, and it's high and pretty and utterly disarming. Sam blushes, and tries to cover by scratching his neck and looking away, only he's forgotten that he's holding a pen, and doesn't even realize when he's drawn a light blue line across his jaw.

This only makes her giggle more. She sits up on her knees, and sticks her thumb in her mouth – pink little kitten tongue darting out to lick it as she leans across the deliberate space between them, and drags it gently across the pen mark, smudging it away – her eyes flitting between her task and Sam's flushed face.

Sam on the other hand, is flitting his eyes from her face to her cleavage, the open neck of her shirt bowing low to give him an ample view.

It suddenly feels hot and he suddenly feels something…_else_ – because she smells like vanilla and nutmeg and girl – so much girl, and he sees the round tops of her breasts peeking from the neck of her shirt, and her hand is hot on his arm and her thumb is rubbing circles on his jaw bone, and her breath tickles the hair on his neck.

Rachel's so close she's almost in his lap, and he's sure if she looked down, she'd _see_ – so he grabs the script, and holds it over his lap, making a quick exit to wash off the pen in the bathroom.

When he comes back, she's sitting cross-legged and innocent, looking at his Beatles poster that hangs above his bed.

"You're back, finally," she says, grinning happily.

Shyly, Sam offers a smile, looks away, and holds up the script. "Wanna give it another try?"

"Sure," she says, pushing her cropped hair behind her ears. She shrugs her shoulders and moves closer, getting into character. "Josh, please, please take me home – I don't know where all this is going – it's so soon – I think we need more time before -," she pleads, her upturned eyes gazing at him, her hand clutching at his arm, and he says his line.

"Before what Jen? Before you finally do what you've been wanting to ever since that night?" he growls, low and thrilling.

Rachel, as Jen, leans forward, and gasps.

Sam, as Sam, but pretending to be Josh, does what the script calls for next – dips his head low, seconds and millimetres disappear, he closes in, and the air feels thick and hot and liquid – his big hand circles her waist as he presses downward fiercely, his lips connecting with the awkward passion of sixteen years and hormones – direct and candid and decisive – and she's captured, she's trapped, her head finding the pillow and her hands finding his back as he surrounds her.

"Hey Sammy we –"

The door swung open without a knock.

It was Dean – age 20 – tall and anything but awkward, his black t-shirt torn and spattered with mud, long and lean and muscled, all smirk and bright eyes.

"Dean!" Sam cried, breaking from the kiss, indignant and angry.

Dean grinned, and cocked an eyebrow, "Never-mind, I'm not here."

He turned to walk out the door, Rachel's eyes following his broad form. He threw his head over his shoulder, "I'm Dean, by the way,"

"Rachel," she called out, biting her bottom lip hungrily.

Sam sighed, and buried his face in his hands.

He was sixteen, and he this is what he thought right then – It was two years until freedom – two years until he could escape, and two years until he could make a move on a girl without Dean sauntering in and stealing her away.

At least, until Rachel snaked a hand into the long hair his dad hated, and pulled him back down to her. "I think we need to practice that part again…minus the interruptions," she murmured, running a hand along his back.

If there was one thing Rachel knew, upon leaving the apartment – sore and flushed and out of breath – If one Winchester was that good – two had to be something else altogether.


End file.
